


High Voltage

by TiggyMalvern



Series: Bad Connections [3]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Gore, Episode: s02e10 Naka-Choko, Graphic Description of Corpses, M/M, the night of Randall Tier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2019-02-28 22:31:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13281207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TiggyMalvern/pseuds/TiggyMalvern
Summary: If once was an accident, and twice was a bargain, three times might be something else entirely.





	High Voltage

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [youweresoafraid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/non_canonical/pseuds/YouWereSoAfraid) and [goldenusagi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenUsagi/pseuds/GoldenUsagi) for beta duties.

He associates this house with music.

It surrounds him as the door opens when he arrives for dinner, piano or violins flowing through the house while Hannibal puts the finishing touches to food and settings. The ornate arpeggios of Handel might accompany the pouring of wine, underline the back and forth of conversation between each mouthful consumed at the table.

It’s odd being here with only the faint creak of wood and the muted rush of winter’s wind outside the walls. Only the splashes and drips of water sponged over his knuckles, and the low murmur of Hannibal’s words. 

“Do you believe I sent Randall to kill you, Will?” His eyes are fixed points, fixed on Will, and anchoring him in turn. “Is it easier for you to believe that?”

He’s never believed Hannibal wants him dead. It’s fully within the possibilities for Hannibal to test him. 

“It is… easier.” Easier than believing Hannibal offered up Randall as a sacrifice, a gift for Will to take. It gets harder to believe when Hannibal’s bathing his hands, carefully soaking the crusted blood from his skin in water that’s soothingly warm.

Hannibal’s fingers hold his, steadying him while he wipes around the cuts. It stings, but only a little; it’s more a gentle reminder of his actions than true pain. “We humans are not so different from the beasts, Will. Our patterns of thought and behaviour become set as we mature. We resist change to our mental landscapes. It takes time to adjust our thinking when circumstances alter around us.”

Circumstances altered around Will tonight. Killing Tier was nothing like killing Hobbs.

Killing Hobbs was necessary. A fast-moving situation needing fast decisions and faster bullets; bullets that saved Abigail, at least for a time.

Killing Tier was… a preference. A man splayed out across the floorboards, exposed and barely aware. A choice to keep on punching, to crush the skin against the bone beneath, to feel the blood flow sluggishly and then stop. 

He can live every second of it over, in every detail, and Hannibal watches with soft brown eyes and sees him do it. 

He looks back down to the bowl, to the mesh of their fingers, and what he sees doesn’t change. “You believe I need to adjust my thinking?”

“I believe you already have.”

Will stares into Hannibal’s face, the face he saw when he killed, the severe lines and faintly smiling lips, and there’s no violence stirring inside him. He set it free, unleashed it to slaughter, and for now it’s… content, leaving him suffused with a rare peace. 

It’s not disconnection – he’s very much here, in the moment, in every moment, and hyper-aware of each delicate shift of Hannibal’s hands around his own. But each moment is complete in itself, the progression to the next inevitable and ongoing, not something that provokes concern, or even thought.

Hannibal takes another gauze from the pile of swabs, dipping it into the water before he returns to Will’s knuckles. “I would enjoy having you share my shower, and taking further care of you, but there’s still a body in my dining room, and I would very much prefer it not to be there in the morning.”

The image of the shower slides into Will’s mind, all water and steam with Hannibal soaping and stroking over his bruised skin and aching muscles, and then Tier’s sprawled between their feet, dead eyes staring open while the water pounds on his corneas. “That would be more your area of expertise than mine,” he says. “Would you have any suggestions?”

Hannibal’s gaze drops down to the bowl, to the blood-stained water swirling around their fingers. “Why did you kill him with your hands?”

“He wanted to kill me. I wanted to kill him. He didn’t use a gun. He wanted it to be personal. And so did I.” It sounds so simple in his head, and at the time it was, his responses immediate, and unquestioned.

“And how did it feel, killing him so close to you, touching him as he breathed for the final time?” Once again, Hannibal’s gaze is locked to his, and Will meets it with no hesitation.

“I’ve never felt as alive as I did when I was killing him.”

“Then you owe Randall Tier a debt.” Hannibal’s voice stays soft and soothing, but the killer flashes in those tawny eyes, reflecting his own. 

A debt. 

Randall Tier wanted to be a beast, one of his own revered creatures. Hannibal understands that, and respects it, and Will can draw them more closely together by honouring it. “We should take him to the museum.”

Hannibal’s hand tightens around Will’s as he lifts them from the bowl, reaching for the waiting towel, and he nods and doesn’t balk at the ‘we’. “That would be appropriate.”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He drives Tier’s car to the museum, the same as he did from Wolf Trap. He wasn’t going to leave it parked near his house, and the trunk’s more than big enough for a body and already conveniently lined with tarps, to hold the bloodied suit after a kill. Utilising it is efficient.

Hannibal follows in the Bentley, far enough behind that nobody seeing them will connect the two vehicles.

Will pulls into the staff parking lot at the back of the museum. Security cameras are inevitable, and he’s already wearing a hat with his scarf pulled up to his nose when he gets out of the car. Tier’s access card and security information were in the glove compartment, so getting into the museum is easy.

Hannibal joins him some minutes later, his face obscured in shadow between the wide brim of his hat and the upturned collar of a long, plain coat that Will hasn’t seen before tonight, and together they carry Tier’s wrapped body into the foyer of the palaeontology section. The windows are expansive, the moon near full, and the barred blocks of light angling across the floor are all the illumination they need.

Will unrolls the tarp, his back to the camera, and Tier stares fixed and blank into the high arches of the ceiling. 

Hannibal steps up beside him, looking down at the corpse, as Will does. “This is personal, Will, an essential connection between yourself and Randall.”

Will considers that, the eyes beneath him clouded by death. “We slipped briskly into an intimacy from which he never recovered.” They understood one another as he died; two beasts eager to kill, and only one of them was going to live.

Hannibal’s close, his breath warm on Will’s neck as he huffs amusement at the misquote, the brim of his hat brushing past Will’s ear. “Why then did you ask for my presence?”

Will looks sideways at him with a twisted smile. “Practicalities.” He throws a glance out the window at the moon. “I’ve got a time limit here, and it will go faster with some instruction.”

He can’t see Hannibal’s answering smile in the shadows, but he hears it in the words. “What is it that you wish to know?”

“I want to remove his skin. Intact, or at least section by section.”

Hannibal dips his head, considering. “That will require delicacy. Human skin is different from any animal hide you might have prepared after a hunt. It’s less mobile, bound more tightly to the underlying muscle and fascia.”

Will reaches into his pocket, and offers him a short, curved Buck knife. “So show me how to be delicate.”

Hannibal takes it and twists it in the angled moonlight, examining. “That will serve for the body. If you require his head, for the face to be preserved, it will need a more precise tool.”

“I do need his head,” Will confirms.

“Then let’s start there.” Hannibal takes a scalpel from his own coat, and slips the blade into place. He tugs on a pair of surgical gloves instead of his leather ones, and gives another set to Will. “We’ll make the first incision at the neck and work upwards to release the tissues.” He demonstrates as he talks, angling the blade flat between the skin and the curving skull, his other hand gently peeling it back. “You keep the tension as you slice, hold it taut, but not enough to tear, like this.” He takes Will’s hand in his own to hold the flap, demonstrating the pull as he works; their fingers are tangled together in blood for the second time tonight, and the bright blue of the latex is artificial and jarring when everything else is so intensely… organic. “Not all of the process needs a blade. In some areas, the skin is less adherent, and can be lifted away by blunt pressure beneath.” He palms the scalpel, gathers up Will’s other hand, and eases their digits between flesh and bone, the layer of skin and hair separating from the back of Randall’s head.

They killed him together, the fusion of Hannibal’s intentions and Will’s actions, and now they’re re-purposing him, together.

It’s trickier around the eyes and the cheeks, where the skin and muscle interact so closely to form expressions, and Hannibal’s dexterity and surgical skills produce a cleaner result than Will could have achieved alone. He still keeps check on his watch, on the moon, and decides to stop when the upper lip slides free.

The chin wouldn’t be easy to attach without sagging. It might spoil the aesthetic.

He cuts through the last, stringy attachment of cheek back to the hairline, and the whole visage hangs intact and loose from his hand. By the end, he was doing it mostly by himself, and he sees no difference between Hannibal’s sections and his own. 

He lays the skin along the edge of the tarp, and stands to stretch out his aching thighs and shoulders. Hannibal mirrors his movements, still alongside him, always close. “That’s excellent work, Will. You might have made a fine surgeon.”

Will laughs, short and jaded. “I’m not sure anyone would have stayed through the consult, never mind let me loose on their body with a knife.” He tilts his head, looking up at Hannibal. “You don’t need to stay either.”

“You no longer require my assistance?” Hannibal’s spine is taut, words clipped shorter than his typical European vowels.

Will lifts his eyebrows with a hint of a smile. “I want you to see him when he’s finished.”

There’s too much shadow to read Hannibal’s face, but his shoulders soften under the coat. “I left the car two blocks east, on Overlea.”

“I’ll meet you there.”

Footsteps echo through the vaulted space as Hannibal walks away, growing muted and then entirely gone when the staff door closes behind him. Will looks down on the sprawled corpse, still dressed, a raw lump of red-brown flesh and teeth emerging from the simple dark jacket and sweater.

Tier liked people to see his teeth.

Will studies him, eyes running over the tarp, the clothes, the results of the skinning. There was a moment when Hannibal was reluctant, hesitant about leaving Will in the museum with the body.

Maybe he was worried Will might plant something to frame him. Something from Hannibal’s house. It would be an almost poetic form of payback. 

It wouldn’t be anything like enough.

He reaches down, cutting and tearing the clothes away from the skin.

Compared to the face, the legs and the arms are easy. Rigor mortis is well established, the limbs holding themselves stiff and straight while he slices, instead of flopping limply around like when he first dragged him to the car. It’s tricky around the fingers and the toes, trying to keep the blade angled beneath the rigidity of the nails, but the length of the limbs peels away from the fascia quickly once he makes the first incision. 

The flesh is tacky beneath his gloves, the cold corpse eager to cling to the latex, to become part of something bigger. He’s pleased with the outcome when he’s finished, the sections laid out neatly on the tarpaulin. It needs to be… elegant. To be worthy.

He looks again at the exhibit in the centre of the foyer. The spine is long, and aggressively curved. There’s no pleasing way to shape Randall’s torso to fit. 

He can create with what he has.

He wraps Tier’s jacket over his arm and smashes the display surround, fragments of glass cascading silver as they twist in the moonlight, collapsing to expose the bones.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He loads what remains of Tier back into the car, bound securely in the tarp once more. He drives along Overlea, watching in the mirror as the Bentley pulls out to follow, and makes his way to the riverfront, close by the docks, where the water’s deepest. Together they push the SUV over the edge, the vehicle and most of its owner disappearing into the inky blackness, the city’s reflection shattered and then re-established as the water stills.

They walk back to the Bentley, and Will asks him to pop the trunk. Hannibal tips his head, curious, but he opens it when Will only stays silent, and then starts the engine.

Will takes the plastic-wrapped shape from his pocket and tucks it into the corner behind the wheel arch, where it won’t slide around. 

He drops into the passenger seat, curling his spine to the lumbar support, tipping his head back against the rest. He’d never buy one, even if he could afford the parts, but damn, he loves riding in this car.

His mind wanders to the space behind him, to the intimacy of it, to fogged windows and bare cocks and heaving breaths.

Hannibal pulls out of the parking lot, winding through the side streets towards 95, and Will’s eyes are on his face, his profile.

Hannibal waits till they’ve left the on-ramp, merging onto the empty expanse of the freeway before he speaks. “What did you place in the trunk?”

Will’s lips quirk at the corner. “A small piece of Randall. Something to keep.” He hears it again, the snap and tear as he sliced through the ligaments and twisted the jaw free from the skull.

Hannibal turns to look at him, his expression still and delicately calm. “Souvenirs are dangerous, Will. You of all people must know that.”

“You don’t trust me.” It’s a statement, not a question.

“I would very much like to, but our recent exchange of murderers suggests it may be premature.” There’s a deeper layer beneath the surface humour that might almost be the truth.

It’s the inevitable barrier to Will’s plan; they’re always playing a game, and the longer they play, the more remote honesty becomes. 

He looks outside, to the vast expanse of city lights, the car sweeping by above, isolated. “Is there anything about us that isn’t innately dangerous?” He can’t ask for trust without offering his own, without something to trade. “There’ll be something at my house, something only you and I know about.” He twists his gaze back to Hannibal’s, fixing them together, confident. “You framed me as a killer once. If you wanted to, you could do it again, only this time it won’t be a lie.”

Hannibal’s lips tighten in thought, shadow spreading through the hollows of his cheeks. “Do you require a similar gesture? The guarantee of mutually assured destruction?”

Will shakes his head, lets his mouth curl at the edges. “If my urge to dispose of you ever wins, I’ll do it directly.”

The change is subtle, yet everything shifts again, and the lines around Hannibal’s eyes diminish and soften. “Perhaps then we have dispensed with the last of our middle men.” Hannibal turns away towards the windshield, attention back on the road, guiding the Bentley through the curve of the freeway.

Will’s thoughts stay locked inside the car, among the rich scent of leather and the muted thrum of the engine. He’s lingering on Hannibal’s profile, the arrow-straight line of his nose, the slight protrusion of his upper lip.

Driving from Wolf Trap to Baltimore, he was still engulfed in that first wave of elation. The immediate adrenaline was gone, a chemical with a very short half-life, but it left in its wake a flood of neurotransmitters far more persistent, the unflinching awareness and satisfaction of… raw, decisive power. 

On his way to the museum, his mind was filled with planning, with creation, the ornamented possibilities for his monument.

Now he’s a passenger, in the Bentley and in the wilds of his own brain, his thoughts free to veer back through the night, and through other nights.

Hannibal’s fingers rest light on the wheel, steady on a knife, precise and deliberate in everything they do. Firm and measured on Will’s cock, delicately tender while bathing his hands, and he’s aware of the yawning expanse behind them, a space that so easily absorbs them into itself and into each other, but this night isn’t following that pattern.

The road lies ahead, gently winding, a trail of moonlight and the bilious yellow stripes of sodium. If Hannibal’s taking him home to Wolf Trap, they’ll keep on going, track the stretching ribbon of 95 out of the city and on through the empty gloom. 

Or there’s Hannibal’s house, much closer, off 695. Three exits away.

He looks to the windshield, and Hannibal’s there too, a darker reflection of sharp angles and black eyes in almost effortless concentration.

Will already knew he’d be gone most of the night. He let the dogs out and fed them after he took Buster to the emergency clinic, before he brought Tier’s body to Hannibal. They’re contented, settled, used to him spending nights away.

He doesn’t want to go home. He doesn’t want to sit awake drinking whiskey, looking at six dogs and thinking of Buster, scared and in pain in a cage. 

He doesn’t want to be alone. He won’t be alone; he’ll be with Randall Tier. 

Hannibal’s hands are meticulous as he drives, Hannibal’s hands that have barely touched him. “Earlier, you suggested a shower.” 

A brief twitch-tighten through those fingers, and Hannibal turns to look at him with eyes fond and appreciative. “A suggestion I remain very much in favour of.”

“Good,” Will says simply, and Hannibal puts on the blinker, moving over into the exit lane.

It’s another fifteen minutes to Chandler Square, and they don’t talk, but it’s comfortable, the quiet, the enfolding leather, the smooth glide of the Bentley along near-empty roads. His mind wanders less now that he’s decided, and it wanders to Hannibal, to what he wants from tonight, to the slow stirring of his cock when he thinks about his mouth.

Hannibal parks on the street, and Will throws a glance towards the rear of the car when he gets out. His breath coalesces and hangs in the air like smoke - it’s cold enough that the jaw will stay refrigerated in the trunk, no odour to give them away.

There’s no tension, no awkwardness as he follows Hannibal to the door, only the low ripple of anticipation. If anything was going to be difficult about tonight, it wouldn’t be the prospect of sex with a man he’s already fucked, but nothing he’s done, or they’ve done, has been uncomfortable. This night’s been a flawless glass sphere of unreality, unconnected to the world or his life, but nothing inside it has felt odd or unpleasant. 

It should, but his choice not to think is why he’s here.

Hannibal takes his coat in the hallway, and hangs it alongside his own. He stops, facing Will, and lifts a hand to his cheek, the lightest of touches. “I hope you know, Will, you are under no obligation. If you prefer to shower alone, my bathroom is at your disposal.”

He has a thousand obligations, to Abigail, to Beverly, to Jack and his own shattered life, and he quashes all of them and smiles and says, “I know.”

He follows Hannibal upstairs, into his bedroom.

There’s a backless chaise at the foot of the bed, and Will reaches for the shirt button at his own throat. He takes his clothes off, layer by layer, and lets himself be naked. 

And then he turns around.

Hannibal started undressing when Will did, the rustle and slide of cloth behind him, but he’s immobile now, shirtless, with his pants still in place. 

Will can understand the concept of distraction.

He’d known the muscle was there, shaping most of Hannibal’s bulk – it had to be, the man carried dead bodies around, lifted and arranged them with artful ease – but there’s chest hair too, more than he’d imagined (he’s imagined him awake, and asleep, his imagination’s strayed all ways). For a man whose appearance is always millimetre perfect, exact adjustment of ties and pocket squares, every blond hair deliberately controlled, his chest is a riot of wild curls.

It makes sense. There’s another Hannibal beneath the precise exterior, one the world never sees, or if they see it, they don’t survive it. 

He reaches out his hand, drags his fingertips through the mass of greying hairs, touching the beast.

There’s some wiriness, a prickling on his skin from hair ends caught at a certain angle, but overall it’s softer than he thought. He trails downwards, over Hannibal’s sternum and ribs, following the thinning line of hair onto his belly, where the muscle twitches beneath his fingers.

Will smiles, because maybe he’s ticklish.

Or maybe he just wants Will that much.

There’s no sound in the room but their breathing, and he unfastens Hannibal’s belt, button, zipper, the pants flopping to the floor around his ankles. Hannibal’s fingers are gentle on his arm. “Come this way, Will.”

It’s no surprise that Hannibal’s shower is spacious, with two main heads and additional jets, as exaggerated and self-indulgent as everything else in this house, and right now indulgence is what Will’s seeking.

The water’s hot, but not so hot it’s an edge, and their hands are on each other, Hannibal squeezing body gel into both their palms. Will’s fingers follow his eyes, over Hannibal’s shoulders and down his arms, massaging and trailing lather onto his chest, and Hannibal reflects his movements, soaping Will’s body, everything shared and mutual. And he’s turned on, of course he is, but it’s lazy and non-urgent, his body steeped in a calm and relaxation that he hasn’t felt in so many months.

Hannibal works shampoo into Will’s hair, his hands a perfect pressure on his scalp, and Will knows that scent, knows it from the Bentley, rising from Hannibal’s rain-damp strands as they sprawled close, hooked by each other. His cock’s swelling again with the association, with the memory of the need, and he inhales more as he tips his head back into the water, rinsing clean. 

He opens his eyes again when the soap’s gone, unsurprised to find Hannibal watching. Hannibal’s always watching, gentle and admiring, and there’s something beyond the simple affection, something that’s almost awe.

Will leans in, and he kisses him.

It’s soft and brief and testing, until it’s more, deeper and reaching, and it’s a line of fire and heat from his lips through his gut and down into his cock. It’s hands, and all the skin he’ll ever need to touch, skin pressing against him with desire that sparks and flares as bright as his own. 

The kiss is slow, languid, and nothing like chaste. It’s wet and open with obvious intent, their bodies shaping to each other along every plausible inch, erections settled together between their bellies. Will’s stomach tilts and drops, and he kisses, lazy, soft, with touches of tongue, feels the kiss trickle over every inch of his skin along with the water.

When they break apart, Hannibal’s hands are cupping his face, lightly stroking, his eyes expanding to become everything Will sees. “I would very much like to make love to you Will, if you’re amenable.”

“Yeah,” he says. “That sounds good,” because it does. He’s wanted it since the Bentley, and in the fantasy world that this night’s become, there are no consequences, there’s only what he wants. And for now he wants more of Hannibal, all of Hannibal, Hannibal who knows everything Will is and what he’s done, and stares at him like he’s perfection.

Hannibal who smiles, and slides his hand down to Will’s, leading him from the shower.

They both understand this, there’s no need to play, and Will stretches himself over Hannibal’s bed, obvious and inviting. Lets himself look openly at Hannibal’s cock, hard and flushed against the mass of damp curls, reaching along the line of his belly. 

It fitted so well into the curve of his hand. It will fit better inside his body.

His gaze moves up to meet Hannibal’s as he joins him on the bed, settling alongside him, propped on one elbow, his fingers soft along Will’s jaw. There’s a long moment of eyes and brushing contact, and then Hannibal reaches over to the nightstand, opening the drawer to find condoms and lube, and Will has to smile. “Not going digging in your jacket this time?”

Hannibal brings his hand to Will’s neck, stroking down onto his shoulder. “I had hopes of getting you to join me in bed eventually, so I planned accordingly.”

Will pulls him down to kiss him again, drawing Hannibal over him until his weight’s there along with his lips and his fingers. Hannibal spreads touch and heat along his wet skin, finding the places Will loves, lingering where he’s sensitive and skirting where he twitches.

Hannibal’s good at this. Of course he is. He studies people and their reactions minutely, clinically, in a very different way from Will, but almost as effective. 

Will was relying on it, when he made this choice. He’s using Hannibal in so many ways, it doesn’t seem terrible to use him purely for himself, just this once, to take what’s offered and let himself feel good.

He knows Hannibal will make him feel good. It already feels good, just this, just lips and breath and response.

Hannibal breaks the kiss, pulling back enough to look at him, eyes fascinated and soft. “When I sent Randall to you, I didn’t entirely predict the beauty he would unleash.”

He’s staring both at Will and through him, and he doesn’t mean anything on the surface. Will tugs at his shoulder. “Don’t talk.” He doesn’t want to talk. He doesn’t want to play a role, or a game, he only wants to feel, to indulge in sensation, to let it be entirely about him for this one night. “Don’t tease. Just fuck me.”

Hannibal resists the pull momentarily, his fingers dipping into Will’s curls. “However you want this to be, you need only say.” And then he does shut up, and puts his mouth to work on Will’s body. Lips and tongue lapping warm over his still-damp skin, sucking earnestly along his ribs, and meanwhile his hands have found the lube again, opening the top with a snap. Will spreads himself wider, lifting his hips, and sighs into the stretch, the first chill as Hannibal’s fingers press him open. His head arches back into the rise of the pillow, his cock surging with more blood as Hannibal kisses over his navel, his chin right there by the tip. It’s spiralling desire and intimacy, and he’s pushing for more, down onto his hand and up towards his tongue, until Hannibal sits back and Will’s watching him roll a condom along the length of his cock.

Hannibal slathers more lube over the head, and keeps to Will’s request not to talk, his eyes asking the question. Will meets his eyes, slides his tongue across his lower lip, grips his thighs to pull them high, and nods. 

Hannibal shifts into position, angling his cock, holding Will’s gaze, and pushes in.

Will parts his lips, sucking in one long breath, his body spreading around Hannibal in a slow, accepting glide.

There’s a moment when they just are, together, connected and still and breathing, with hands tight on each other’s skin, before Hannibal starts to move, and Will gasps, a tremor sweeping through his muscles. 

He’d forgotten the astonishing intensity of it. 

He’s been alone, not celibate, and he’s enjoyed himself, with fingers and a few aids, but it’s not the same. Not the same as sex with another person, someone else sharing it, someone who wants it as much as he does. Touch without foreknowledge, the small adjustments to angle and pace and rhythm as it all comes together, feeling out the arrangement that works, communicated in breath and small sounds and looks.

And they are looking, both of them looking; Will locked into Hannibal’s eyes and seeing him, feeling the vast, chaotic, terrible joy of him, and Hannibal doesn’t draw back, doesn’t find it weird or creepy. He _likes_ having Will inside of him while he’s inside Will, open and unhesitating in everything he knows, and he doesn’t just want somebody here in his bed, he wants _Will._

It’s shivery and physical and close, pleasure and shocking cognisance in the steady friction, the grasping fingers, the rising huff of their breath. His head’s empty of everything, and full of _this_ , desire and contact and having what he wants, one hand shaped around Hannibal’s bicep, the other gripping his own cock. He’s stroking and reaching, and he doesn’t have to reach far because it’s all here, flooding his brain and his body, and he comes, quick and panting, with Hannibal drinking down every moment.

His semen spatters between them, cooling on his own skin, on Hannibal’s, and when his eyes open again, they’re still linked. Hannibal’s cock’s hard inside him, his muscles drawn in taut lines and his mind yielding, and Will smiles, and says, “Go for it.”

Hannibal fucks him again then, and this time Will gets to watch instead of only feel, watch his body ripple and flex as his hips push in, watch water drip from the hair clinging along his forehead, watch his tongue move behind his teeth; he watches till he tumbles into the black of his pupils, into Hannibal’s well of desire and ecstasy, and Hannibal fucks him and fucks him, and comes with a surge of want-need- _have_ that shudders through them both.

They’re still, breath and fingers on skin, time stretched and slow, and Will wants to keep him here, just them with no outside. But Hannibal has to pull away, has to deal with the condom before it slips, and Will lowers his thighs, stressed hips in need of the reprieve. 

It’s been a hell of a long time since he did this. He doesn’t remember this much ache.

Hannibal’s gone from the bed, wrapping the condom in tissue, and Will doesn’t want to move, but he doesn’t want to lie here leaking lube either. He pushes himself upright with a sigh, and makes his way to the bathroom to clean up, and take a piss while he’s there.

When he gets back, the bedspread they fucked on is gone, and Hannibal’s between the sheets on the far side of the bed.

Hannibal looks up at him, shuttered and cautious. “Are you staying?”

It’s four in the morning, and it’s a long way to Wolf Trap. “Yeah.” He lifts the covers and slides in, the sheets already warmed by the heat of their bodies from above. The pillow’s damp from his own hair.

Hannibal’s expression is softer, but his body’s motionless. “You still have no wish to talk?”

Will’s looking across a bed at a killer, a man who ruined his life and made him feel amazing, and the smile he gives him is muted. “Not really.”

“Do you have an opinion on touch?” 

There’s something almost hopeful behind the words, and Hannibal’s hands are always considerate and… nice. “Touch is okay,” he offers, and he sees the flash of relief before Hannibal turns away to switch off the light. 

Movement in the bed, and Hannibal’s heat is closer, and there’s a hand at his hip, two gentle strokes before it settles there, steady. 

It really is okay. Maybe pleasant.

It’s good that he likes it, because sex is part of them now.

He wonders if he’ll ever get Hannibal to come before he does.

He flashes on a look, an expression, fleeting at certain times, and he knows he can. The emotion in Hannibal is twisted, coiled around a core of violence like everything else inside that unpredictable mind, but it’s real, and this matters to Hannibal; Will _matters_.

It’s late, and it’s been a long night.

Falling asleep is easy.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He wakes when his phone rings, the vibrating buzz as it crawls along the nightstand dragging him from sleep. The other side of the bed is empty, but still warm.

It’s Jack, telling him to get his ass over to the museum. It’s only a little after 7.30. The local cops didn’t waste much time bringing in the FBI.

He hangs up, and a minute later he hears Hannibal’s phone downstairs, quickly answered. 

He can smell coffee.

He calls the emergency clinic where he left Buster. He’s doing fine, stable overnight on his IV and off oxygen, his surgery scheduled for later that morning. He calls his neighbour, Mrs Larin, asks her to let the rest of the dogs out and feed them. She’s done it before when he’s out of state at a conference, or a case. She’ll think nothing of it.

He swings his legs onto the floor; his feet make contact with the wood and he doesn’t flinch. Hannibal’s house is indulgently heated, even at this hour. He flexes and stretches his toes, arches his back. The mild ache of exertion pulls across his shoulders, the exertion of beating Tier into a bloodied corpse, then spending half the night hauling his body round Baltimore.

His hand aches too. His knuckles are exposed, the wet dressings shed in the shower, and they’re raw and starting to scab. He wriggles his fingers, the sensation spreading and peaking, the memory re-establishing in his head, feeling it again, every moment of killing.

The drapes are closed, but early daylight seeps in around the edges, illuminating the dark blue covers, the striped bolster, the painted wooden panels, and he breathes out, long and slow.

He spent the night in Hannibal’s bed, and he didn’t see Alana, or Abigail, or the nightmare creatures from the corners of his wild imagination. There was only Hannibal, here when Will wanted him to be, in the way Will needed him to be.

He drags his hand through his hair, pushing it from his eyes and into something resembling the swept back style he adopted three weeks ago.

His clothes are laid out where he left them, and he’s got nothing else to wear, so he stands and pulls them on. The shirt and pants aren’t too bad, he changed into those last night before he drove Tier’s corpse over here, but clean underwear would’ve been nice.

He turns on the light and checks himself in the mirror before he goes downstairs – he’s a bit puffy under the eyes after their busy night, and some of his more determined curls have reasserted themselves, but he’ll pass. 

Hannibal’s in the kitchen, wrapped in a dark robe with a faint check pattern and white piping, ten times more elegant than a man in a bathrobe has any right to be. Will recognises it from another morning, when he came here after he’d been sleep-walking. 

It’s distant and unimportant, washing through his mind like a memory from years in the past.

“Good morning, Will.” He’s bent over that exorbitant silver coffee machine, and when he turns, he’s offering Will a mug. “I assume you had your own call from Jack?”

“Yeah.” He takes the cup, knowing it will be just how he likes it, tests the temperature with a cautious sip.

Hannibal leans back against the countertop, nursing his own drink, peering at Will from beneath the fall of soft blond hair. “Jack thinks you’re in Wolf Trap.”

“I didn’t tell him otherwise.”

“He’s not expecting you for an hour.”

“Ninety minutes, at least. Morning traffic.” His car’s not here. He’ll either be getting a lift with Hannibal, or taking a cab. 

The Volvo might have to experience some sort of breakdown close to Baltimore. Jack wouldn’t appreciate learning of Will’s other addition to their plan. He’ll have enough issues dealing with the one at the museum.

“So we have time to eat breakfast, like civilised people.” Hannibal’s smiling, easy and open, the way he used to. Like he did before Will knew, when standing in this kitchen was peaceful and _hopeful_ and his friend was an unquestioned anchor.

It’s oddly congruent now, relaxed and simple, and his own smile’s there before he gives it any thought. “Breakfast sounds good.”

“You don’t know yet what I’m offering.”

Will shrugs. “It’ll be better than a bagel from the drive through.” He’s always enjoyed eating anything Hannibal cooks; he still does. 

“You’re failing to set me much of a challenge,” Hannibal says, and he’s already at the fridge, bringing out eggs.

Will takes a mouthful of coffee, lets it slide down, tingling hot and bitter-sweet. “Maybe we should confine challenges to the less conventional spheres of our relationship.”

“Perhaps.” Hannibal flicks him a glance of amused agreement, gathering pans and bowls and setting them out on the island. Will moves closer and rests his hip against it, watching as Hannibal works in practiced efficiency, sipping at his drink and soaking in the quiet calm. “How would you like your eggs?”

He should resent Hannibal. He sent Randall Tier to his house and he hurt _Buster_.

He doesn’t resent him. Hannibal sent Tier for Will to kill, to let him kill freely without hesitation or guilt. He never intended harm to the dogs. He knows that, and the difference matters. The key to Hannibal is always to ignore the consequences and look to the reasons.

“Whatever inspires you,” he says, with a quick grin. “I’m easy.”

“I don’t think you’ve ever been easy, Will.” Hannibal’s smiles can be subtle things, but the deepening of the lines by his eyes always reveals him. “I had to put forth considerable effort to fully gain your interest.”

Will dips his chin and arches his eyebrows. “Framing me for several murders and then vindicating me again? The first part you achieve often and efficiently enough that I don’t imagine it’s any great strain on your intellect, Doctor.”

Hannibal tosses an egg into the air, catching and splitting it on a spatula as it descends. “It was still a significant investment in terms of time.” He turns his head, fixing Will with a mock-grave stare. “Allowing for my wide variety of hobbies and interests, time becomes a most precious commodity.”

Will’s laugh is short and light. “You choose to spend your professional life surrounded by people you find endlessly dull, listening to the problems of the moronically mundane.” It’s genuine, oddly, the contentment settled in his chest, though he’s not unaware he’s teasing a vicious killer. One who looks unfairly good after maybe three hours of sleep, but he must be used to that.

“Not all my patients are so uninteresting, although many are,” Hannibal concedes. He shifts his whole body then, one hip to the counter, facing Will straight on. “All the more reason that outside of work, I should invest my hours only in the worthy.” There’s no mock-anything about him any more, only the absolute weight of truth.

It’s grey and dim outside this kitchen, the sky obscured by overcast, but there’s daylight streaming in through the windows behind them, and his bubble-night of unreality has dissolved into a world where decisions have residue.

He can’t back off completely; their relationship’s shifted again, but he could reasonably draw a line between sex and non-sexual situations, keep it professional outside the bedroom. 

Or he can take what there is, for the short while this lasts. After everything, he deserves to have _something._ Even if it’s just the temporary blunting of loneliness and the quick pleasure of physical release.

This is Hannibal’s house, and inside it, he can be what Hannibal wants him to be. Outside these walls, he’ll be entirely his own, and his plan with Jack is ongoing.

He sets his coffee down on the countertop, takes one more step and kisses him, because he can.

**Author's Note:**

> This fandom makes tagging hard. Is it graphic descriptions of violence if it's tearing apart someone who's already dead? Better to tick it just in case, I suppose.
> 
> Back in September I was supposed to be writing a quick, fun little challenge one shot. Then it escaped and went on the rampage through my brain. Anyone got a tranquiliser gun?
> 
> You can find me [here on tumblr.](https://tiggymalvern.tumblr.com/) If you happen to be feeling extra love and want to reblog, there's [a post here.](https://tiggymalvern.tumblr.com/post/169363973844/high-voltage-tiggymalvern-hannibal-tv)


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